


Artificial weave

by virtuous_contract



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Angst, Character Study, How Do I Tag, Masturbation, Mild Angst, Mild Sexual Content, Other, Post-War, Wutai War (Compilation of FFVII), does it count as hurt/comfort when Seph's trying to comfort himself?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:46:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25755322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virtuous_contract/pseuds/virtuous_contract
Summary: Sephiroth likes his worldly pleasures, perhaps a little bit more than other people do.An auto-erotic mood piece, or character study if you will.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	Artificial weave

Sephiroth liked his worldly pleasures, so when he opened his front door to the courier, he felt rare excitement. He applied his usual expression of serenity onto his face before he opened the door. One could never know if the courier was part of the Silver Elite. Sadly, it wouldn’t have been the first time they’d try to find out about the contents of his mail and his reactions to it. There had been too many times he’d had to live the consequences of just how closely the world watched him, so he’d become in the habit of being very guarded. It was just easier that way. He gave no polite smile as he signed for the package and took the light carton off of the courier’s hands. 

He’d had his own apartment for almost a decade now. The fights he’d had with Hojo to get it was the stuff of Shinra legends. He’d finally snapped at 15, when Genesis and Angeal had become his friends. Together with them he’d learned more about the world and of his own strength. He’d started tearing down the labs, equipment, walls, doors, windows, files, samples… you name it, he’d destroyed it. It had led up to him never ever taking his personal space for granted. He knew he was still under camera surveillance, but he knew what angels and corners were out of reach for them in his own apartment. It was still nothing compared to the labs.

At first the apartment had looked like a showroom from some ultra-modern home decor catalogue. Black, brushed steel and white, but little by little he’d added some personal touches. Not so much in the front room, that served as living room and dining room combined, where he often received visitors, but the bedroom had a few choice personal touches. An antique, priceless tapestry depicting the ancient civil wars of Wutai, hand painted on hand woven silk was the focal point of his apartment. It was an impressive, even imposing piece that covered nearly an entire wall. He’d found himself staring at it in a thousand different ways on the night when he couldn’t sleep.

Other personal touches were changes to the palette of the walls. They were now gentle shades of different whites, subtle yet effectful. A few choice houseplants, gifts from Angeal were strewn across the apartment. An antique printing of LOVELESS from Genesis was on special display on a book shelf in the front room. But he himself, had come to appreciate textiles the most. He’d made his large walk-in closet to a small little display room and storage for those of his items that didn’t need to be stored in special environments.

There were pros and cons to collecting textiles. They were often hugely underestimated in price in comparison to the amount of work that had gone into them. They were fairly easy to care for, store, hide or display, especially if you had money. He liked them for their beauty, but there was something more when it came to old textiles, something melancholy.

An antique dealer he’d once met had said that ‘textiles carried their own destruction’. He hadn’t really understood what that meant at first, but with time he’d come to meditate on the notion often. It was true; no textile would last forever. Not like glass, pottery, stone wear or metal. Textiles are much more fragile. 

There was also something deeply personal about them, especially if it had been made into clothes. Clothes especially, seemed to be engrained with memories of times lost, of someone else, perhaps even several others. Many of his pieces had likely passed through innumerable hands before they came to this, and he found that immensely intriguing.

Over time he’d met many people with ‘normal’ lives, and he found their attitudes towards their family’s heirlooms appalling. They had so often been taken for granted. He’d seen people calling their own family heirlooms ‘unmodern’, ‘impractical’, ‘boring’ or just plain ugly, just for being out of fashion. 

Perhaps it was because he’d never been given a hand-me-down anything from his family. It was one of the many effects of not having family. He’d met many Wutai refugees, and they often spoke of items, heirlooms that they’d lost. It had made him wonder if people could only assign proper value to something they’d lost.

Perhaps these were the reasons to why he’d taken an interest in antiques. Somehow, he liked the idea of ‘saving’ them from people’s ignorance. He’d devoted a considerable amount of time to learn about the different crafts that had gone into the items that surrounded him in his apartment; ways of painting, of carving, of decorative inlays, of different materials, of fibres, spinning, weaving… The items of his home were truly exquisite. Miracles of human imagination. Something that counterbalanced his despise of human beeings. The items brought him comfort, and they brought him thrill.

Thrill was what he felt when he took the box to his dining table to open it. He cut the box open with a scalpel, careful not to run the blade deeper than the thickness of the carton. He was pleased to find the neatly presented receipt, a certificate of authenticity and a slip of information that came with the robe he’d purchased from a museum that was going out of business in Wutai. To prolong his pleasure, he read the information on his purchase to refresh his memory.

“This robe belonged to the former High Priestess Izayoi, who effectively ruled the kingdom of Wutai until the rightful heir Sasame-no-Himemiko would come of age. This is presumed to be a ceremonial robe that was worn during festivities such as the new year’s celebration, important births at court and the likes. Rumour says the High Priestess was assassinated soon after Sasame-no-Himemiko took the throne. The killing is presumed to be the first symbolic assertion of power by the newly appointed ruler. The tear in the fabric and the stains around it bear witness to a lethal blow to whoever was wearing it, as well as the reason for the robe was not worn by the next High Priestess.”

He carefully put the documentation aside, tied his hair up in a loose knot, and stepped into the shower to scrub himself down with unscented soap before he’d break in his newest purchase. It was the least he could do to protect it from the unseen dirt, oils and perfume on his skin and hair. 

Expensive tissue paper rustled softly under his fingers when he lifted the bundle out of the box, enjoying the whiff of corroded metal and something like old, dry paper which he’d come to associate with aged silk. He slowly peeled away the tissue paper until he held the robe in his hands. It felt heavy now, even though the box had seemed light. 

The robe was made on a dark brown silk base which might have been black at one time, with golden contrasting around the neck and sleeves. The whole garment was stiff and heavy from being packed with metal and silk embroideries. The focus of attention was large circular medallions, present on both front and back. The medallions were framed with oxidised golden threads, stitched on by magenta silk threads. The motif inside the medallion was that of the water dragon, Leviathan, curled in on itself and framed by smaller, intricate decorative patterns. Leviathan was the legendary protector of Wutai, an apt choice for the high priestess.

Excited, he walked towards the walk-in closet as he carefully threaded the robe onto himself. Coming up to the full-size mirror, he was met by his own pleasing image. The black silk framed his pale skin, the broad overlapping collars of the robe accentuated his thin neck, and the white crown of loosely tied up hair softened his facial features.

He wondered what the high priestess would have looked like when she was alive. What had she worn underneath? Sometimes, even in garments that were several hundred years old he could feel the whiff of perfume if they heated up or moistened. He hoped it would happen with this coat too.

He watched himself in the mirror, watched how the coat moved when he walked. He noticed how the red lining teased and flaunted richness with its eye-catching colour that called attention to that which the robe hid; his own body. He wondered about the looks the coat had attracted to the high priestess. The coat was an unmistakable, glaring symbol of power, and it must have kept people around it in absolute awe. 

He closed his eyes and imagined that he’d taken the high priestess’s place in the ceremonial room from where she must have ruled over Wutai. He imagined the looks that had been given her, was now his. He let his fingertips run over the fabric, enjoying the different textures. Padded silk and rough metal sent shivers down his spine as he thought of the hundreds of hours of work that had gone into making the robe. He imagined the dye workers that had dived for the clams that gave the key component for the black dye, the workers who’d stomped on herbs to extract the juices that made the greens, and the smiths that had hammered the metal out to the thin sheet before the metal thread could be cut from it. It was all his now. He could feel the coat lending him it’s memories, beauty and power.

When he opened his eyes again, they’d gone dark in the mirror. His chest was visibly rising and falling making the coat sway softly. He took note on when it opened as he moved, to hint the skin underneath. He moved his arms slowly, noting how the width of them allowed for a glint of the soft curves of his arms. Would her spectators have thrilled at her skin? He thought so. It wouldn’t matter what hue it had been, or what shape her body had been. No one wearing the coat could have been regarded as ugly. Wearing the coat, even he looked _right_.

He turned his back to the mirror to walk back into his bedroom which was flooded in warm evening light. The coat was too thick to sit down with in a chair, in its fragile state. Instead he sat down on his knees in the rays of the sun by the window, next to his bed. The robe stiffly spread out around him, straining against his new position on the floor. There he closed his eyes and leaned his head on the edge of his bed, drawing a deep breath, pulling in the exotic smell of the coat that he was wearing.

He wondered if the high priestess had been lonely while she ruled. Had she allowed herself a lover? One that would meet her eyes full of desire and longing from the back rows of every ceremony? Was there someone she always looked for in a crowd? Someone who’s hands she longed to feel, to push open her heavy robe? He let his hands grab the collars to make the robe move against his skin. The lining was like feather down, incredibly soft against him. He pushed the robe open while picturing the high priestess and her lover in a secret meeting, somewhere in a back room ,while the public awaited her appearance. When his hands glided up his knees to his thighs, he found himself hard and excited, and he took himself firmly with one, while the other kept searching for that tear from the stab wound in the fabric.

He palmed himself almost absentmindedly, still focused on his imagination. Who’d stabbed her? A servant? A friend? A stranger? The lover?

He found the tear in the robe, carefully examining it with his prodding fingers. He could feel the ragged threads, the caked dirt around the opening, and that made his cock stiffen with a palpable throb. Blood of the high priestess of Wutai. Had it hurt? Perhaps it had been welcome?

Without knowing why, he pictured her with her lover, engrossed with her lover’s touch as the knife sank in between her ribs to pierce her heart. He pictured the sensation of warm blood pouring out of the wound, making the robe stick to her skin. He stroked himself with more intent, harder.

He wondered if souls were real, and if they were, was a piece of hers with him now, caught in the robe, in her dried blood? Would she be ashamed that this priceless symbol of Wutai’s former glory had fallen into the hands of the enemy, the General of Shinra? 

He stroked himself roughly now, invoking her presence, inviting her to look at him. He felt himself warming at imagining her humiliation, her image dancing on the bright red backdrop of his eyelids. He painted her in different emotions, trying out, sadness, shame but found he liked her in anger most. He imagined her screaming in defiance at his theft of the robe and loved it. 

He was breathing heavily into his sheets, the robe stiff on his shoulders, and he felt a spot where his arm rubbed against the metal embroideries. There must have been a snagged thread there, because the spot was stinging. He didn’t mind. The idea of his blood staining the robe only thrilled him more. The thought of his blood mixed with the high priestess’s had him moaning. She’d been a good fighter, so she must have been taken by surprise. But he’d won over her though. He’d disrobed her spirit.

He could feel his release building in his muscles, and he found himself too worked up to fight it. In his mind more screams joined the high priestess’s. The workers who’d made the coat, their families, the people at court who’d seen and mourned the high priestess, her loving subjects, their heirs, they were all screaming. The choir of screams warped to those he’d heard on the battlefields in the Wutai War, until he too felt a stab between his ribs over his heart. Certainly, something went warm and sticky, but it wasn’t blood that poured into his hand. It was something much less pure, much less interesting. For a short moment he was screaming alongside the others as his pleasure leaked from his body, but the instant he stilled they were screaming at him again. 

Detached, he wiped his hand on his sheets without getting up. He couldn’t stop the faces in his mind from crying. He felt drool on his bed where his head had rested, and he scoffed at himself: The Demon of Wutai, drooling alone. The priestess instantly laughed at him. He let her laugh until he’d dried enough not to dirty the robe.

He went to get the tissue paper to re-wrap the robe in and walked back into his spacious closet. When he saw himself now, he saw how short the robe was on him. The proportions of the sleeves were wrong for him too. It almost looked as if he was wearing a child’s dress. 

For a moment he wondered if it was indeed the same image he’d seen just a short while ago. It seemed different. He couldn’t look at himself without some measure of disgust. He looked all _wrong_ again, his cheeks pink, his hair trussed and his lips too red. Or perhaps he looked just like he was supposed to? Like the whore of Shinra that he rigthfully was. But the robe, the robe was still every bit as glorious as he’d imagined when he’d found it up for sale.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like, you can re-read it and look for at least five real life political agendas in this fic. xD Not saying that it's a good idea or anything, but it's all there...
> 
> Poor Seph.
> 
> Let me know if I've missed tags, triggers or CW that should be added. <3
> 
> Commens and kudos are always appreciated.


End file.
